Wednesday, 30 September 2015

The Guardian Columns 1998-2000 - Julie Burchill

THE
GUARDIAN COLUMNS 1998-2000 JULIE BURCHILL

More huff and puff from everybody's favourite sociopath, Julie
Burchill.

I'll tell you what, reading her columns en masse with no seven day
gap between each leaves you reeling, as though you've just had a
fight in a pub car park with some bloke who's accused you earlier in
the evening of giving his pint funny looks ('Are you looking at my
pint, mate?'). Your chest is pounding, your shirt is ripped and
you've a bloodied lip though you've neither lost nor won because your
opponent is one of those who just won't stay down or concede defeat
because they've no comprehension of the concept. So you've both had
to call it a draw just to bring the fight to an end to enable you
both to get home for some sleep as you've got work in the morning...

I remember reading these columns when first published in the Guardian
and waiting for the inevitable angry denunciations from irate
liberals in the following week's letters page. I always felt these
responses from the readers was what Burchill actually thrived on and
if it didn't happen then it meant she wasn't doing her job properly.
Which was all probably part of her remit as handed down by her
employer. The editor of the Guardian at that time was Alan
Rusbridger, I believe.

Am I a masochist for reading them all over again in book form?
Probably. And how are you meant to read this collection of columns, I
wonder? In one big sitting? Are you meant to dip in and out of them?
I don't know what lesson it came in at school but I surely missed the
one entitled 'How to read a book of Julie Burchill columns'. Perhaps
it was in human biology? Or woodwork?

So with trepidation I started reading it (in short bursts on a train,
actually) and it didn't turn out too bad. Burchill's reputation goes
before her but it's a bit like swimming in the sea here in Exmouth:
you dip a toe in and you think it's going to be freezing but when you
immerse yourself fully, it's really not too bad.

I'm not sure if Burchill was at the height of her powers when writing
for the Guardian but even if running on empty, she's better than most
other columnists. Which means that Julie Burchill - The Guardian
Columns 1998-2000 is an okay if not dizzying read even if it does
come in an atrocious cover.

All human life is here, from the sublime to the ridiculous; from the
precise aim of the assassin to the scattershot blasting of the
shotgun wielding cider-addled farmer. Burchill's humanity is given a
good airing, particularly in such pieces as when she writes about the
death of her Dad - killed by capitalism: 'They tell you how many
people communism killed, and how many fascism killed. But they don't
tell you how many capitalism killed, and is killing, because a) they
wouldn't know where to start, and b) it would never end'.

So too is her sense of humour particularly when the spectre of David
Baddiel falls under her gaze: 'One of the most embarrassing
questions, right up there with 'Are you really going out with David
Baddiel?', must be, 'Do you know who I am?'.

Or even certain male poets: 'Ted Hughes. Another pet hate of mine.
His poetry is like being slapped around the face with a wet mackerel,
and I don't mean that in a sexy way'.

Or even lidos: 'If there's one thing I love, it's lidos. More than
parks, more than pubs, more than President Clinton's penis, they seem
to me to be the greatest expression of a very public hedonism,
attractive and accessible to all, regardless of age, sex or social
status'. Interestingly, Burchill was one of the features of
Banksy's Dismaland show at the old lido in Weston-super-Mare
recently.

It's when she goes out of her way to intentionally cause mischief or
controversy for no other reason than for controversy's sake that
she's the most annoying, however. No better illustrated than by her
attack upon the late, great John Peel who was alive when her column
about him was first published, causing him considerable upset. To
whose benefit was it to launch such an ugly attack upon him?
No-one's, of course, apart from her own. That particular column is
included in the book and it's not a pleasant read. Neither are her
attacks upon John Lennon, come to think about it, though this is more
than made up for by her attacks upon her very much more deserving
(middle class) targets.

When reading this book it struck me, actually, that both Burchill and I
have ended up living on the coast (though different ones - she now
lives in Brighton) having both been born and raised in Bristol. Both
members of the West Country working class that she never neglects to
mention.

Perhaps I should Facebook her and become her friend? Dare I?

On finishing it I returned it to the charity shop from whence it came
for some other masochist to enjoy, which I thought was a good fate to
befall it as it means it will continue generating money for some
decent cause or other until it one day finds a proper home on
someone's bookshelf.

And from there, sadly, it will remain forever more unread simply gathering dust...

Having just managed to find myself some part-time employment I suddenly discovered (a) I actually have very little time to consider blogging (that may sound far-fetched but 'tis true) and (b) I just can't think of anything worth saying right now. Thus, they are no more but do still place meditative sounds for universal peace at 'The Gong Farmer Presents...'. If I get inspired again, I'll blog again. Just remembered, Julie Burchill went to Brislington Comp, didn't she? Explains it all.

Right. I always thought the content of your blog was very good and was coming from an unusual place. I'll check out Gong Farmer.Re Julie Burchill: Spalding Gray once said in Swimming To Cambodia that after suffering five years of carpet bombing by the USA; living on a diet of lizards, bugs, bark and leaves; and having been educated in Maoism with a touch of Rousseau - the Khmer Rouge were born. In Bristol, after suffering years of bullying at school, living on a diet of fishfingers and semolina pudding, and having been educated in Stalinism with a touch of Tony Parsons - Julie Burchill was born. There's a lesson in there somewhere.